


Sandwiches

by Cimila



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, memory problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 05:26:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3679593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cimila/pseuds/Cimila
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky pulls himself together because he doesn't want to burden Steve.</p><p>Steve lets Bucky go because he doesn't want to make his friend feel trapped, doesn't want to make him do anything he doesn't want to.</p><p>In the end, maybe, they'll be able to see that what they want is the same thing.</p><p>Each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sandwiches

**Author's Note:**

  * For [galerian_ash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galerian_ash/gifts).



> Suuuuuper sorry this is late, I went to New Orleans for Semana Santa and completely forgot. I got back at 7 this morning and then slept all day and when I woke up there was an email and I was like 'oooooh, shiiiiit.' But it's up now, and I hope you enjoy it. I tried to avoid angst, then gave up and dived in. :) 
> 
> I haven't really written in this style before, so I hope it reads okay.
> 
> Edit: The Prompt: 
> 
> I don't think I'll ever get enough of post-TWS recovery fics! I especially love it if Bucky doesn't quite have his memories back, meaning that Steve has to befriend him all over again and earn his trust. Unrequited love and longing that ends up not being that unrequited after all is one of my favorite things, as is desperate kissing in the rain (don't judge meee~). I have a thing for stoic characters breaking down and showing vulnerability, especially if crying is involved, but don't feel like you have to write something super-angsty! I also adore humor and would be excited to read something with action -- maybe a mission for either of them goes awry and the other has to mount a rescue?

It’s hard. Really hard, not just sometimes. All the time.

Because the damage to Buckys brain was...it was horrific. The doctors told him that it was healing, slowly, but still healing.

“Eventually, he’ll wake up one day and he’ll remember everything.” A doctor had told him, soon after Sam and Steve had returned from Eastern Europe, Bucky in tow. It had been early enough that Steve had been hopeful, so hopeful, regardless of the fact that after all the trouble the Winter Soldier had gone to to lose them, they’d found him working as a farm hand. He spent the plane ride home alternating between looking at his metal arm in curiosity, and looking at Steve like he was the answer to… something.

He’d been so hopeful. So stupidly hopeful. He felt like an idiot; worse, he knew his hope wasn’t helping. It was hurting, hurting Bucky, because every time Bucky woke up and stumbled out of his room, confused and unsure, Steve couldn’t help but deflate a bit. And even if Bucky had no idea who he was, he still saw it and it made him even more uncertain. Made him reluctant to share what he knew, because Bucky saw Steve lose his hope little bits at a time, and he thought that it wasn’t enough - that he was lacking, even when he didn’t know what he was missing.

Steve didn’t know how to tell him that anything Bucky had was more than enough.

It was everything.

Bucky could wake up tomorrow and remember nothing, be a complete blank slate, and Steve would be overjoyed, because he’d gone for years thinking that Bucky was dead. Steve had watched him fall to his death, and just seeing Bucky alive was enough for him.

He couldn’t tell him that, though, couldn’t go through the same conversation every day. Especially when he had to start off by introducing himself. How do you go from ‘I’m Steve, your name’s Bucky - James Buchanan Barnes’ to ‘I’m so in love with you it hurts’? You don’t. Steve had tried, a few times, in the beginning, when the brain damage was so severe he’d forget every couple of hours, but it just confused Bucky even more.

Made him sad, made him angry, that he couldn’t remember. That he was going to forget soon.

Tony had called them ‘factory resets’, once. It’d been flippant, out of his mouth before he’d thought it through completely, like most things, couched in the mechanical terminology the man had lived most of his life surrounded by but… Steve had broken his nose with a left hook, probably would have broken more than that if Natasha hadn’t gotten in between them. Tony had apologised, and Steve had too. He knew what Tony meant, after all, and he hadn’t meant for it to hurt Steve. He knew what Tony looked like when he was aiming to cut, and that wasn’t it.

Factory reset. It’s probably along the same lines as Hydra had thought. A machine, to be used and wiped clean when they’re done, or when there’s a malfunction.

A malfunction.

Like he’s not human. Like everything that makes Bucky who he is, everything that makes him the love of Steves life, can just be taken away by a machine.

(Except, he’s starting to think it can, because every day Bucky wanders out of his bedroom, looking lost. He looks around the apartment he’s been living in for eight months, at the decor that Steve hasn’t changed since he moved in, with the same uncomprehending expression.)

Steve tries to make it easy, has set a routine that he never breaks unless it’s an emergency. If he’s called out, he gets JARVIS to update him on what Buckys doing. The worst part is Steves presence doesn’t make a difference either way; Bucky has good days and bad days and it’s as unpredictable as the weather.

Bucky will jerk awake, sweating and fearful of things he can’t remember. There’s always the first few minutes where the day can go either way, usually he slides out of bed and wanders out to the rest of the apartment. Regardless of Steves presence, he’ll sit at the breakfast nook. Sometimes, if it’s a bad day, he’ll spring out of bed and barricade himself in the room, eyes wide and wild, searching for threats that Steve made sure were long gone. They haven’t had any truly bad days in months.

The ones where Bucky doesn’t barricade himself in the room, but walks out with the gait of the Winter Soldier rather than the shuffle of a lost man. Where Steve barely gets out ‘hi’ before he’s being attacked.

Steve’s just thankful that Bucky’s recovered enough that that hasn’t happened in months. He says that there’s progress, small but there, every time Sam asks. Placing scrambled eggs in front of an unresponsive Bucky, Steve’s not sure that’s true. He knows it’s progress, from what Bucky was like before, but… how can he call it progress when Bucky doesn’t know his face, his voice? When he stares at Steve and sees nothing, no one. Looks right through him like he doesn’t exist.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much, if that fucking doctor hadn’t told him there was hope. If he hadn’t gone into the recovery process with expectations. Maybe the man had been trying to sugar coat it for him, but it’s only made it worse. If the doctor had said there was little to no chance of recovery, that Bucky would never remember, would suffer from retrograde amnesia for the rest of his life, Steve would still be doing the same thing. He’d still be waiting for Bucky every morning with breakfast and a smile, but he wouldn’t have hope.

It’s the hope that’s killing him. Hurting him.

That pulls him down until he can’t taste anything but disappointment on his tongue.

And it’s wrong, he knows it’s wrong. ‘In sickness and in health,’ they’d whispered to each other, the night concealing their sins. Just because this was a different sickness than he’d expected doesn’t mean he could just back out, could leave Bucky when he’s needed most. It’s just, he looks at the lost shell his best friend has become and he wants more. He wants more than the occasional spark of life in otherwise despondent eyes. He wants to wrap around Bucky again, fit their bodies together like they’re two halves of one whole. Wants to laugh and joke, to bump against each other as they move around his rooms, getting used to each other again. Wants someone to lean on, to share his fears and his joys.

More than anything, he wants Bucky to smile at him. Even just the smallest corner of his lips, something to show that he wasn’t alone in this. That he still had his best friend, in some small way.

And Steve feels like shit, focusing on himself when Bucky’s spent years being tortured, having Hydra use him as a weapon, rewire his brain. He should be giving Bucky all of his attention, everything he has. Instead, Steve lays in bed at night wishing for… something.

Anything.

(Everything.)

****  
  
  
  
  


-

Bucky doesn’t remember how much he doesn’t remember. A lot, he assumes. So many things are a blur. Nothing more than impressions; mostly red. The feeling of a gun in his hands, scope pressed to his face. Pain. So much pain, pain until it stops being pain and becomes the base level, so that sometimes when he wakes up in the morning the lack of it surprises him.

He remembers enough to know that he’s been here for a while, though, in this place without pain.

And there is a man. A man who smiles with his mouth, and nothing else.

Bucky (and the only reason he knows this name is because the man says it every time they meet. Or, Bucky assumes he says it every time they meet; he cannot remember all the times.) remembers fleeting impressions of being distrustful of the man (his handler? but why would he need a handler? So many questions, and no answers to be found anywhere.) because surely there is pain lurking in those eyes? Behind the false smile, there must be pain. There cannot be anything other than pain.

And there is… just not his own.

Bucky isn’t sure how to feel about that revelation. That the man smiles so false because he’s hurting, in some capacity, not because he wants to hurt Bucky.

He doesn’t have long to ponder this new aspect, it is gone before the day ends, and he doesn’t remember thinking it at all.

-

Red. Pain. Blood on his hands, in his mouth, he can’t feel his arm, but it moves to help him when he scrambles off the too soft bed and into the most defensible spot in the room.

He doesn’t leave the room; all he knows is pain. There’s a voice, maybe, but it’s drowning among all the screams inside his head.

-

He doesn’t remember how much he’s lost, but he remembers that it’s a lot. That he’s missing so much he’s barely a person. Maybe he’s not a person. Just a ghost, a revenant, haunting the man who takes care of him, the man who can’t let him go.

Every day that he can remember starts out the same.

It doesn’t help. How can he know what’s real and what’s false and whether he’s alive or not when everyday's the same.

The hard mattress still too soft compared to whatever dreams he’s been ripped out of. His body tingling with the lack of pain he expects, pins and needles in an arm that isn’t there. It surprises him, every time, that his left arm is metal and mechanics rather than flesh and blood. He feels like he should be able to remember at least that, but he can’t. There’s not even a name until the man says it. He can barely hold onto that for the length of a day, let alone the name of the man.

He sits down, and there is food in front of him.

The man lapses into silence after the introductions. He stares like he’s looking for something.

Whatever he’s looking for, he will not find it.

He cannot even help himself - how is he mean to help this man?

-

The Asset sights his target.

Mission parameters remain hazy, but the objective is clear.

He fails to subdue the target; secondary objective - elimination.

Failure.

There will be pain for this.

-

Today Bucky woke up knowing more than pain. More than just his name, too. There will be a man out in the kitchen. He makes breakfast and smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. Pain, though not his. He is not hurt, here.

He shuffles out, looking around the apartment. He knows all of this. He’s done this before. The thought should not be comforting, not when there are no active memories, just deja vu. But it is, because there is a man waiting.

The man smiles when he walks into the kitchen, breakfast almost ready.

“I’m-”

“Steve.” Bucky interrupts, because he knows this. The man drops the pan, breakfast spilling onto the floor. That has never happened before, he know with certainty, like how he knows the sky is blue.

“Bucky?” The man sounds so hopeful, and Bucky nods. He is pulled into a hug. The physical contact makes him still, because there’s been nothing but pain from touch, but the man doesn’t seem to mind his awkwardness.

He is saying something, over and over again. Bucky cannot quite make it out, muffled as it is into the side of his neck.

Steve spends the day touching him, pressed up against him, smile lighting up his entire face. He doesn’t say much, repeating the same thing over and over; Bucky, I love you, I’ve missed you, are you okay?, do you need anything?, Bucky...

It doesn’t mean much to Bucky, but it is clearly important to this man.

So Bucky answers the things he knows he should, though he doesn’t know how he knows. Perhaps there is a greater social consciousness, made for the purpose of conveying meaningless social platitudes when you can’t remember anything but a few names.

I’m fine, I’m good, Steve, I love you too, how can you miss me, I’m right here?

Meaningless things.

Bucky thinks that maybe he won’t remember tomorrow, because so many things are a blur, are out of his reach.

He’s right.

-

He doesn’t know where he is. He can feel panic rising up, but panic will do him no good. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does. His limbs twitch with remembered pain, he’d been in pain a second ago, hadn’t he? Or had it just been a dream?

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know anything.

There is a note on top of his dresser. A lamp as well. He doesn’t touch them, they are not his, he does not know this place.

Where is he?

When he leaves the room, he can’t help looking around. It’s an open floor plan, no where to hide.

There is a man in the kitchen, whistling as he cooks. He flips what smells like bacon in the pan, laughing as he calls out.

“Come get it while it’s hot, Buck.” He reaches for a plate, but it crashes on the ground as the man turns to look at him.

There is something in his eyes, something dying, and it makes Bucky flinch back.

He doesn’t want to get that close to so much pain, knows instinctively that pain makes people lash out. His body aches from remembered pain.

The man says nothing for a few moments, ignoring the shattered plate, before he places the bacon down.

“I’m Steve, your name’s Bucky - James Buchanan Barnes.” His voice sounds wrong, off, but he - Bucky - obeys when the man gestures for him to sit down. The man walks over the sharp plate fragments to get a broom, but he does not flinch.

-

He wakes up and all he remembers is pain.

The man is in pain and he doesn’t know why.

Bucky listens as he introduces himself (again, he thinks arbitrarily, because he knows they have never met before but then, he knew the man was in pain before they had even met, so maybe not so arbitrary.)

He eats the breakfast laid out in front of him, and watches the man as the man watches him.

-

There’s something terrible in not knowing.

In knowing you don’t know.

How many times does he have to go through this?

All he can remember in knowing he’s missing something (everything).

(And pain, but that’s a given; he’s always know pain, even when he’s known nothing else.)

-

“I’m Steve, your name’s James Barnes.” The sentence feels familiar, but he’s never heard it before in his life.

-

Steve is standing in the kitchen, cooking breakfast with that slump in his shoulders that Bucky recognises so well. Bucky smiles, goes to call out, because what the hell’s got his best guy so glum, huh?

Except he remembers last time he remembered something, anything. Steve’d been so happy.

Worse, Bucky somehow remembers the next day, when he’d forgotten again.

He never wants to see Steve in so much pain again.

So Bucky closes his mouth, because he knows why Steve’s sad.

He doesn’t react as Steve introduces himself, as he introduces Bucky. He sits, eats, stays silent.

It’s easier this way.

-

The man doesn’t smile anymore. He doesn’t know why he expects him to.

-

There is no one waiting for him when he comes out of the room. He doesn’t know why he expected there to be. He’s an independent asset. He’s… is he?

He doesn’t know.

He eats the sandwich on the counter. It tastes familiar.

-

“I’m Steve,” He does not listen to the rest of the sentence. He does not need to. It is not important.

He had known this man would be here, waiting to care for him, but he had not known his name.

Now he does. He will remember it.

-

There is a man.

-

Pain.

His arm aches, but there should not be an arm there.

There is, and it is metal.

It hurts, but he cannot feel.

-

He is glad the man is here, instead of a sandwich.

It is an odd sensation, because he cannot remember ever eating a sandwich.

-

Steve is waiting for him, in the kitchen. Waiting for him with breakfast and heartbreak writ large across his beautiful face. He tries to hide it with a smile, but he’s always been a shit actor.

Bucky covers his eyes with his flesh and blood hand, not wanting to look at the monstrosity attached to his left shoulder.

He needs to go out, continue to pattern. Do nothing to hurt Steve further than he already has been.

But it’s so hard, when all he wants to do is go out and wrap Steve up in his arms; lie to him and tell him it’s all gonna be okay.

-

The first thing he notices is that he has a metal arm.

He feels curious about it. So many questions. How and why and when and who and so many more.

But there’s another part of him, a part that looks at the gleaming metal and is disgusted. He doesn’t know why there’s a part of him that recoils from this.

It is a part of him, surely it cannot be so repulsive.

That night he dreams of warm red on sleek metal; he finally has an answer.

He doesn’t remember

-

He knows he doesn’t remember, and he’s pretty sure that’s worse than any memories he could have lost.

There’s a man waiting for him, but he doesn’t know why.

They stare at each other over breakfast, and he can feel something compressing his his chest, some sort of emotion, but he doesn’t know what. Doesn’t know why.

He want to go to his knees for this man, this sad, desolate man, but he doesn’t know why.

He thinks about reaching out and touching, about trying to ease away some of this mans pain, but he does not, cannot and he doesn’t. know. why.

-

He needs to tell Steve to let him go, he’s never gonna get better. Needs to use this moment of memory to push Steve into living his own life again, not just waiting around for something that’s never gonna happen.

He ain’t ever getting better.

And even if he did, what? They’re gonna live a happy life together, with Bucky and his metal arm, and blood up to his elbows?

Fat chance.

Steve deserves better. He’s always deserved better, but before he could pretend that maybe one day he’d be good enough for Steve.

He looks at his metal fingers, resting listlessly next to his breakfast plate, knows that he’ll never be able to hide it, how… ruined he is. He’ll never be good enough now.

He should be telling Steve to let him go, to move on with his life.

Instead he’s mechanically eating his toast, acting like he doesn’t know who Steve is, so Steve has to stay. Won’t ever let him go. Because he won’t, he’s too good a person. He’ll stay by Buckys side, making him breakfast and doing the same thing every day, killing himself in the process. Bucky can see it, in his eyes. He’s suffering, he’s losing hope bit by bit, and Bucky can’t help, because he won’t remember tomorrow and that’ll just make it worse.

...But he can’t let Steve go.

So instead of doing the right thing, Bucky lifts the fork to his mouth and lets Steve suffer.

God, he’s a piece of shit.

-

There was a boy, once.

And now there’s a man.

He doesn’t think they’re the same. Because the boy was small, he was fire. Effervescent.

And this man is large and dying.

He thanks the man, quietly, for the breakfast. The man bends a fork in half, as if surprised by the manners.

He doesn’t know why, people have always said he had good manners.

(Though he doesn’t know what people.)

-

He’s usually aware enough that it only takes a little prompting for him to use the bathroom, for him to shower, and today is no different.

Steve explains that he’ll be right outside, if he needs anything, if there’s any trouble. He wants to ask why type of trouble could there be inside a bathroom, but one look at the bathroom and he doesn’t want to know.

It would have been ultra modern once, but now it’s been patched so many times it’s more mosaic than modern.

‘ _A cubist masterpiece_ ’ Steve joked, once. A long time ago. He couldn’t remember his own name, but he remembered the way Steve had chuckled, patting the sink as he pointed out the soaps and towels.

The door shuts behind him, it has no lock, and he starts to undress. There is a large mirror, and the more clothes he takes off, the more he wants to look away.

His left shoulder is a mess of scars, stretching across the front of his chest. He turns to look at his back. The damage is worse there. He does not think of the metal arm at his side, imagines he can still feel blood in the plating.

Steve had touched it earlier, and all he wanted to do was move away and apologise. Steve was so sad, he didn’t need to inflict the metal contraption on himself. He strips off his pants, there are more scars on his legs and torso, on his remaining arm, and all look old. Fully healed. None so bad as the knotwork on his left shoulder, all minor.

“Bucky, you okay?” Is called softly through the door, when he’s done nothing but stare at his mangled, horrendous body in the mirror. His name is Bucky, he is reminded. Steve knows his name, probably knows all about the scars that Bucky is only now seeing for the first time.

How Steve can stand to look at him, let alone touch him, Bucky does not know.

Maybe that’s why he’s so sad, he has to deal with Bucky.

He turns on the shower, so he does not have to answer Steve. He is not okay. He does not remember anything but Steve and pain, and the knowledge that there should be more, but he is too deficient to function properly.

So he clings to Steve and pain, because that’s all he has left, and he does not know how to let go.

-

There’s a sandwich on the counter.

He feels a vague swirl of emotions about the sandwich, but cannot decipher them. Bits of bread get stuck in the metal plating of his false hand.

As he’s picking it out, he remembers getting blood out of the plating.

He feels horror, but cannot understand why.

There might be something missing, from his brain and his heart and this apartment, but he doesn’t know what it is, so he sits on the kitchen stool and waits.

-

He wakes up and there is not the shock of pain. It is a first, or, he thinks it’s a first. All he can remember is pain and Steve, but the pain is fading and Steve…

Steve will not fade, he knows with the certainty that the sun will rise tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that.

He cannot let Steve fade. He doesn’t know whether he’s talking about forgetting Steve or Steve fading away.

Both trouble him.

-

He wakes up hard, mouth watering as he thinks of Steve, his little Stevie. Or, his big Stevie, now, Bucky guesses. They hadn’t really had long to try out Steves new body, his upped stamina and endurance. Bucky couldn’t wait. Hauling himself out of bed, he prepared to go pull Steve back to bed. Walking towards the door, he absentmindedly palms himself with his left hand. He’s almost reached the door by the time he stops, looks down at his reflection in the metal, and remembers everything.

Or, as much of everything as there is to remember, anyway. Hydra burned out a lot, some of it he’ll never get back. He doesn’t want it back.

He stares down at the prosthetic, and feels disgust.

If he hadn’t remembered, he would have gone out and touched Steve with it. Would have slid it over Steve, stained him with the blood on it. Not just it, his real hand too. Stained with blood and gore and death.

And Steve would have let him, because he’s always been stupid for Bucky.

But Bucky couldn’t let that happen, not anymore, because he was drenched in innocent blood, and Steve was too good for that, too good for him. He could never touch Steve like that again, never see him writhe and moan, because Bucky’d done unspeakable things.

He wondered what he’d have to do to run Steve off, make him go find someone better, someone to live his life with, rather than just waiting around for his amnesiac, returned from the dead boyfriend.

He couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t hurt Steve, and Steve didn’t deserve any more pain.

How do you tell your childhood sweetheart that you couldn’t think of touching him without feeling sick, because you’ve killed too many people to not start thinking about the easiest ways to incapacitate, to kill. That you’ve killed so many people you don’t deserve a kind word, or thought, that you should disgust him. How do you say that you’ve never wanted him more, now that you’re so sullied? That he’s the only good thing in your life, the only thing worth remembering?

How do you tell him to move on, when you never want to let go?

-

There’s a man. He almost smiles when you ask him for a sandwich, around lunch.

You tell him that he should smile more, and he does.

You move to the lounge, and eat so many sandwiches you get sick of them. But you don’t stop eating them, because the man looks so happy to make you sandwiches. To watch you eat them.

You always half the sandwiches up, give him the bigger halves, and this makes him smile as well.

Your knees knock together on the small lounge, and it makes your mouth dry.

His hand brushes yours sometimes, when he passes you things, and you like this best of all.

-

The man smiles sometimes, now.

He asks questions over their breakfast, and he - Bucky, the man prompts gently, now and again - answers when he can.

Each answer seems to make Steve happy, so he answers as much as he can.

-

He’s fucking up. Bucky knows this, because he can remember more and more of the days when he’s not all there.

Amnesiac him isn’t sticking to the program of not hurting Steve.

Answering questions and smiling and playing goddamned footsy in the breakfast nook. It’s all gonna end badly, because this can’t last.

Couldn’t he see the pain in Steves eyes? How many days are they missing? Days they can’t remember at all? He hasn’t been able to find a calendar in the apartment, so he has no idea how long it’s been. Only that it’s been a long time.

When was the last time he was lucid. The other day? Last week? Last month? ... Last year? Bucky didn’t think it’d been a year, but he’d never be able to tell. Neither of them seemed to age, anymore. They could have been doing this song and dance for a decade, and Bucky wouldn’t know.

The thought is depressing, and the urge to wrap his arms around Steve and hold his tight is almost overwhelming.

But he can’t, he can’t hurt Steve like that. Not when he can’t guarantee Steve everything he deserves.

Especially not when he deserves a normal life, with a lover who he can actually love, not just wait around in case they ever get better.

Someone who doesn’t have seventy years of blood weighing them down.

-

He looks at the sandwich and frowns.

He doesn’t want the sandwich, he wants Steve.

Steve, who should be waiting for him. So he calls out, wanders around the apartment. There’s no answer, so he eats the sandwich Steve made for him and sits down on the lounge. Waiting.

Doors slide open somewhere, and a few seconds later Steve has rushed into the room, panting. One of his eyes has swelled, and the brunet jumps up in alarm.

“Steve!” He cries out, and the blond smiles at him, waving away his concern.

“Buck. JARVIS said you were looking for me.” Buck, he thinks that’s him, nods.

“What happened?” He reaches out when Steve gets close enough, drags a flesh finger along the edge of the bruise, and Steve shivers. It’s a good shiver, Buck thinks, but he doesn’t know why he knows that, or why he wants to trail his hand down Steves neck, his chest.

He can take a pretty good guess as to why, though, with Steves pupils blown wide like that.

And he wants.

Steve’s looking at him with heat, with intent. Buck can’t remember ever being kissed, but he’ll exchange whatever his actual first kiss was for a first kiss with Steve.

They’re standing so close Buck can feel Steves breath on his lips. He moves forward, eager to kiss, but before his lips can connect Steve has moved backwards, averting his eyes like he’d done something wrong.

Buck’s confused, but doesn’t push. Instead, he lets Steve make them sandwiches until they can’t eat anymore.

-

The mans name is Steve, and he’s looking at the Asset with heat in his eyes, but he never makes a move.

He watches him all day, but they never touch more than casual brushes.

He’s confused. Normally when one of his handlers watches him like this, they take what they want. But Steve doesn’t. Maybe he just likes to watch; the Asset thinks there have been a few like that. But there is no other handler, so the Asset does not know what Steve is intending to watch. He waits for further instructions; there are always instructions, especially in this. The Asset will obey, or there will be pain.

(The Asset will obey and there will be pain.)

There are no further instructions.

Just blue eyes, watching.

-

It’s not surprising, really, Bucky muses as he tries to answer Steves questions in the same way he would if he weren’t fully lucid.

Of course Steve wouldn’t want to touch him, wouldn’t want to kiss him. He’s taking care of Bucky out of some deep seated obligation, not out of love.

Why would have love Bucky, with his hideous body and his body count. Who could love Bucky as he was, with everything he’d done? Steve was just sticking around out of loyalty to who he used to be. Not because he wanted him, or liked him, or needed him, this new, used, damaged Bucky that’s crawled from the pits of his own mind.

No one would want that Bucky, especially when they knew him as he used to be; whole, healthy, sane. Attractive.

He had to find a way to give Steve his own life back. There was only one surefire way Bucky knew, one way that would leave Steve free to live his life while Bucky tried to get on without him.

He had to get better, fix himself, so Steve didn’t have to watch him everyday of his life. So Steve could have a life.

(A life without Bucky. With someone filling the spaces that he was supposed to fill. Spaces he can’t fill because he was ruined and ruination, all in one mangled package.)

-

The routine has changed.

“Steve.” He will say when he emerges from the room.

“Bucky.” Steve will reply, reminding Bucky of his name.

He does not know when the routine changed, or why, but he has more memories than the pain he woke up with now.

-

He wakes up without pain. He doesn’t move for a long while, relishing the change.

Steve mentions the time when Bucky finally gets into the kitchen. He had not realised he had to be up before a certain time.

“No! No, I was just teasing.” Steve looks nice, with his cheeks red.

“There was no pain this morning. I enjoyed that.” Steve has lost the red in his cheeks, he looks almost shattered.

Bucky thinks it is a good look on him, too.

-

How long has it been since he last remembered everything?

Too long. His head’s all fuzzy, and it takes more effort than it usually does. He feels like he’s moving through molasses, thinking through it as well.

-

When he ventures hesitantly out of his room, Steve is waiting for him. He thinks Steve will always be waiting for him, and the thought makes him smile. He doesn’t remember much, only bits and pieces, but everything he remembers is Steve. Steve smiling, Steve making sandwiches, the warmth of Steve sitting next to him on the lounge.

“Hiya, Buck.” He says, and Bucky steps closer.

“Hey Steve.” They stand there smiling at each other for a few minutes, before they start the day.

-

He’s an absolute idiot.

He just stood there and smiled at Steve. Nothing else, just smiled; got, Steve must think he’s pathetic. But Bucky continued on the charade of getting better, anyway. Because even if he wasn’t better, he couldn’t tie Steve to him forever. So he slowly puts his mind together as much as he can, and tries his best to play like he was the day before.

Shy, unsure, but wholly trusting of Steve. Bucky’s got the last part down, but the previous parts… not so much. He can play it, sure, but what he wants is to go in there and talk to Steve, really talk to him. Shake him and tell him to go live his own life and drop Bucky in a cell somewhere, because he deserves it. If he knew what Bucky has done, what he is… Steve wouldn’t want to be anywhere near him. Not when he’s killed so many people, when he’s looked into someones eyes when they died and felt nothing, when they… no, Steve shouldn’t want anything to do with him.

And maybe that’s why he keeps up the charade, because if Steve lets him go - as he should - he’d fall to pieces.

Without Steve, he’s not sure if he’d be more than a machine. Steve brings out the best in him, even when Bucky’d thought there was nothing good left. Without Steve, there’s nothing worth saving about Bucky, and maybe that’s why he’s holding onto Steve so tight even when he’s trying to let go. Because Bucky doesn’t want to be a lost cause yet, he still wants to be saved, wants to be worth something.

Hell, at the core of it, he’s still the same kid from Brooklyn who dreamt of more than what he had, what he was. Except now he’s got more issues than the Times, and instead of dreaming about pulling Steve into the lap of luxury with him, it’s Steve who’s pulling him out of the dumps.

Eventually Bucky shuffles from his room, and it’s almost exactly like a repeat of the previous morning. Bucky thinks it was the previous morning, anyway. The difference is he can appreciate staring at Steve the way his other self can’t, even though Steve means the same to them both.

Steve is everything.

-

There are less days where Bucky doesn’t remember anything. He wakes up one morning and knows it’s a Sunday, because he can remember every day that week. He double checks with Steve, and it’s really a Sunday.

He thinks, maybe, he’s finally actually getting better.

A week stretches to a fortnight, stretches to three weeks, and though there are a few days where he can’t remember anything at the time, Bucky remembers later.

There aren’t any black holes in his memory, nothing like what he used to get. The darkness, the inability to remember anything, scared him more than he’d like to admit.

And now that he’s getting better, he should start to remove himself from Steves life. But he doesn’t want to, wants to stay. Wants to crawl into Steves bed at night, wake up wrapped around each other.

But he still remembers the feeling of Steves hand on his chest as he pushed him away, feels the sting of rejection, so he works on getting visibly better to Steve, so he can leave.

****  
  
  
  


 

-

The thing is, Steve should hand over care of Bucky to someone else. Someone who doesn’t want to take advantage of his friend, doesn’t want to kiss him and hold him. Doesn’t dream of fucking him and wake up with soiled sheets. But he can’t give Bucky up.

Because he still wants Bucky, in every way he can, but how could he do that? How could he take advantage of this man who’s not really his? Who still doesn’t really know who Steve is? They’ve no shared history in Buckys mind, nothing that would make him want Steve, except out of a sense of obligation because he feels he owes Steve for his kindness.

Some days it feels like Bucky is doing better, and then he gets worse, sometimes so much worse.

But one day it’s been a month without bad days, without having to defend himself against a Bucky with dead eyes and sedate him. Just Bucky shuffling into the kitchen and eating a sandwich, following the routine Steve established months and months ago, because the doctor said it would help.

And then the days in which Bucky remembers him come more and more often; Steve doesn’t know how much he remembers, whether it’s just Steve or if there are other things too, and he doesn’t want to press too hard and fuck it up. There’s an inkling in the back of his mind, in his heart, that says Bucky’s truly getting better. His memory’s coming back, or at least he’s forming new memories.

And that’s probably not healthy either, that he’s the only thing Bucky knows. It makes how much he wants Bucky worse, and he’s worried that if Bucky tries to kiss him again, he’ll give in. It was hard enough to turn away last time. Now that he’s showing signs of visible improvement…

Steve’s never more aware that he’s not a good man than when Bucky’s near.

-

On one of the really good days, he calls the psychiatrist.

When he leaves, Steve could’ve shouted from the rooftops he was so elated.

_Vast improvement._

_Leaps and bounds._

Steve draws Bucky into a massive hug and orders in, just to see the delight on Buckys face when he tastes the Chinese food. He knows Bucky will like it, knows what dishes he prefers, and right now it doesn’t break his heart that this is the seventh first time Bucky’s had with it.

It just feels like hope, that this will be the final first time, and Bucky can start rebuilding his life.

-

Steve bolts upright in the middle of the night, breathing hard and feeling the dull swell of panic in his chest, his throat.

… because what if Bucky wants to rebuild his life without Steve?

-

Three weeks later, and Bucky asks,

“Can we get Chinese again.”

Steve almost drops the glass he was holding, spilling some milk on the counter. He doesn’t stop smiling for the rest of the night, and Bucky looks bemused at his happiness, but grins back every time.

They play footsie under the table, and it’s almost like normal.

-

The things that Steve wants number like this;

1 - Bucky to recover in a way that he’s happy with.

2 - Bucky to be happy

3 - Bucky to try to kiss him again, because Steve can’t make the first move, doesn’t want to pressure Bucky, but he thinks Bucky might be well enough to make the decision, now.

But even though Bucky watches him, sometimes, he never tries to kiss him again. Steve tries hard not to be disappointed, because Bucky’s getting better and all Steve can think about are his own needs.

Pathetic.

-

“Hey, Steve,” They’re watching a game on tv, and Bucky’s come back from the hospital to get his brain scanned. No lingering abnormalities, the knock off super soldier serum working as it’s supposed to, for once.

“I was thinking about maybe getting my own place.” Steve almost tears the arm off the sofa.

“...If you think you’re ready, Buck, and that’s what you want to do.”

Steve never wants Bucky to go, but he’d never make him stay.

“Yeah, I think it might be.”

-

They find him a small apartment downtown, and it’s nice. Steve hates it on sight.

“Don’t forget, if you ever need anything, you have my number and you know where I live. You can always come back.” Home, he doesn’t add, because his place isn’t Buckys home, even though Steves home is by Buckys side.

“I know Steve, thanks."

-

It’s almost been a whole year since one of Buckys violent episodes, seven months since he started to visibly improve in ‘leaps and bounds.’

Two weeks since Bucky moved out, and Steve’s pretty sure he’s going to go insane. It’s not the silence, there was plenty of silence when Bucky was there.

It’s the absence, knowing Bucky isn’t there.

He wanders around like a shade, hoping for a call from Bucky saying he wants to come home, hating himself for wanting to cut Buckys independence short. He knows Bucky needs it, that it will help his recovery and independence and self confidence and everything the psychologist said was true.

So he paints and draws and goes on all the missions he can get his hands on, instead of spending all his time at Buckys new apartment.

He restrains himself to weekends and whenever Bucky invites him over.

It’s not enough, but then, he’s never been able to get enough of James Buchanan Barnes.

 

 **  
**  
  
-

Bucky knows he’s done the right thing by moving out, even if it hurts. Steve’s free to live his life, now, without the weight of Bucky dragging him down. His metal arm weighs heavily, more than just the metal it’s made of, but the blood and lives of all the people he’s killed.

Some days it’s hard to get out of bed, all that weight pressing in on him until he could scream from the pain.

He can’t just walk out of his bedroom and see Steve, smiling and waiting for him.

He wants to, though. Wants to wake up in their bed, even though their bed is years long gone, and too small for the both of them and they’ve both changed irrevocably.

How about, Bucky wants to wake up in their new bed. The one in Steves room of his apartment, wants it to be their apartment. Just like he wants it to be their home. Wants Steve and Bucky to be steveandbucky, the they to become an us.

But he knows it can’t happen, so he wanders around his apartment and the surrounding blocks, makes friends with his neighbours, almost all of whom are old and who appreciate the help he offers them, making grocery runs for them, helping them carry bags up the stairs. Doing a few odd jobs, here and there.

It feels good to be useful, to be able to help someone without blood being spilt. He likes it.

He even likes the way the old women pinch his cheeks and try to set him up with young women they know, likes that they give him sweets like he’s a child and call him ‘young man.’

-

A month after he’s moved out of home - out of Steves place, which is really the only defining characteristic of anywhere Bucky’s called home - the old ladies stop trying to set him up with young women, and start asking about Steve.

He’s a bit ashamed that even they can see how far gone he is for his friend, and some of the things they say actually make him blush.

They like Steve, who’s always a gentleman and opens doors for them and helps them up the stairs if they want him to. Everyone likes Steve, the only people who don’t are, in Buckys opinion, clinically insane.

“Such a fine young man you’ve got there.” Greta says to him one afternoon as he delivers her groceries, Steve having taken their own back to Buckys apartment to start on dinner.

“I know.” He tells her, instead of arguing that they’re not like that, the way he usually does. She smiles at him and pats his hand, bundling him up with some cakes before she sends him off.

Sometimes he wants to be Steves, for Steve to be his, so badly it hurts. Letting the old men and women in the building think he’s dating Steve helps a bit, sometimes.

Sometimes he includes himself in the number of geriatrics, and dreams the day away, thinking of Steve and how they used to be; of how he wanted them to be again.

-

He has a now rare bad day. Not bad like he used to get, not turning into a machine drenched in blood and violence, just unable to remember anything. Anything but Steve.

He shuffles out of an unfamiliar bedroom, and Steve isn’t there. There is no sandwich waiting for him.

He panicks.

The doors for this apartment unlock in a way they never did in the other one, the one he should be in with Steve.

(He’s almost childlike, like this. Simple minded in a way Bucky’s not honestly sure he’s ever been. He wants to know where Steve is, why Steve isn’t there, he needs to find Steve. That’s the only thing he knows, and it’s dangerous. They should have prepared for it, but they’d both been stupidly hopeful.)

He meets an old lady in the hallway, and flinches away.

“James?” Bucky doesn’t know who James is, so he shakes his head, and she looks concerned. Bucky swallows, inexplicably nervous with someone he doesn’t know, and finally manages to form words. Steve never needed him to form words if he didn’t want to, didn’t mind if he couldn’t.

“Steve? Where’s Steve?” She looks worried, now.

“I’ll call him right away. Do you have your phone?” She asks, gently, and Bucky shakes his head. He’s not sure.

“Nevermind, someone here has it, I’m sure.” Bucky doesn’t know if she’s still talking about his phone, just stays put against the wall when she tells him to, watching as she slowly makes her way down the hall.

Twenty minutes later, Steve is rushing up the stairs, and Bucky flings himself towards his broad frame with a cry of ‘Steve.’

He doesn’t let go of Steve for the rest of the day, but then, Steve doesn’t let go either.

-

They let the residents of the building know about Buckys problem the next day, told them about the amnesia and how it was mostly better now, but of course there were relapses.

For the next week, Bucky doesn’t have to cook a single thing, he’s so inundated with food from everyone. He wouldn’t be able to eat it all by himself.

Luckily, Steve is there. He doesn’t go back to his apartment in the tower, just stays with Bucky.

It’s good. Comfortable, natural; how it should be.

-

It’s a few months before he has his next relapse, but they’d prepared. On the fridge now, in plain sight, is a picture of Steve with his number beside it. When he sees it, he calls Steve, who arrives as soon as physically possible, sometimes faster.

Sometimes Bucky stares at the picture on the fridge when he’s fully himself, but he knew that’d happen when they’d taped the picture on there.

-

The woman who does maintenance and repair for the building retires, boasting happily about her plans to move to Florida with her husband.

Bucky applies for her job, because he likes to fix things and be useful.

Steve throws him a party when he gets it, and all the residents of the building make their way up to his apartment to celebrate. At the end of the party, Steve stays the night, and Bucky laughs along the next day at the winks and nudges he gets from the people he sees.

He wishes it were true, still, but he’s slowly resigning himself to a life as Steves friend, rather than as his lover.

****  
  
  
  
  
  


-

Things Steve wants, in order of preference;

1 - Bucky

2 - Bucky in his home

3 - In his bed

4 - As his partner

The list goes on for quite a while, all items starting with ‘Bucky,’ or having him as the subject. There’s one or two at the end along the lines of ‘world peace,’ but they honestly feel like a more attainable goal than Bucky, sometimes.

-

Steve knows he’s starting to run himself ragged, too many missions, not enough down time. But his apartment is so empty without Bucky that he can’t stand to be in it. His team tell him he needs to take better care of himself. Even Tony. But Tony doesn’t really have a leg to stand on, in that regard, so Steve ignores their advice.

Bucky notices, though, and threatens to sick Greta and Julie and Harold and all the other elderly people the live in Buckys building onto him.

So he pulls it back a little, not because of the threat of nonagenarians, but because Bucky looks almost sick with worry, line creasing his forehead when he talks to Steve about it. He doesn’t want to make Bucky worry, so he tries to take care of himself better.

But it’s hard, sometimes, when he’s home in an empty apartment, wishing for more than what he has. And it’s greedy, because he has so much now, more than he ever dreamed of, but it’s still not enough because he doesn’t have the one thing he truly needs.

-

The next time Bucky snaps at him about his health, Steve tries to brush it off.

“I’m a super soldier, I’m hardly gonna catch cold.” He says, and when he turns to look at Bucky, he’s stunned by the look of absolute fury on his face.

“You listen to me, Steve Grant Rogers, and you sit your ass down while you’re doing it.” Steve sits down, fast enough his ass makes an audible thud against the couch.

“You’re important to me, and seeing you like this, like you don’t care about yourself, it’s not okay.” Steve nods along as Bucky continues, and vows to try and do better, because he doesn’t want to hurt Bucky in any way, not even by proxy like this.

“Next time I see you work yourself half to death, I’ll strap your ass til you can’t sit.” He ends with, and Steve tries to ignore the warm feeling of arousal that ignites in his gut at the words, the same way he ignored it when Bucky ordered him to sit.

It was inappropriate and Bucky didn’t want him like that, not anymore at least.

Besides, that was never how it was between them. It always used to be Steve who was in charge, because he needed it. Needed to feel in control of something, when he couldn’t even control his own body. And Bucky accepted that, was okay with it.

To want to be controlled by Bucky, well, it wasn’t going to happen, that was all.

-

Bucky orders him around a few times, casual like, the way they've done a hundred times in the past, but Steve finds himself practically jumping to comply.

He tries not to think about it.

Ends up thinking about it too much.

-

He wakes up hard and aching for Bucky, for all the things they never tried, because Steve was too insecure about himself, about his body.

He wants to try it all, everything Bucky ever suggested and Steve turned down because he was a fool who couldn’t appreciate when he had it good. Because he felt like what little masculinity he had couldn’t take being the submissive sexual partner.

He was a fool who didn’t deserve Bucky.

Didn’t stop him from wanting, though.

And he did want, desperately.

If he takes himself in hand thinking about all the things they used to do, but reverse, well, no one’s ever gonna know.

****  
  
  
  
  


-

Bucky has a theory, and it’s crazy. It’s ridiculous and he knows it, but he’s noticed, the way he notices everything now, but more importantly the way he’s always noticed everything about Steve.

So he decides to test out his hypothesis. If nothing happens, well, that’s the expected result, right? He knows that’s what’s going to happen, because anything else is just a delusion.

“Sit Steve.” He orders, because it is an order, no mistake about it, when Steve wanders into the kitchen. He’s wet, from the pouring rain outside, and there are little puddles forming where he’s stepped.

Steve sits, almost instantly. Bucky doesn’t pause in mixing the batter for Harriets birthday cake, but he wants to. Wants to fix his eyes on Steve and order him to his knees and to open his mouth, but he can’t. Not yet but, though he hasn’t thought about what would happen if his hypothesis was true, Bucky thinks that maybe soon.

Maybe they’ve both been stupid, wanting the same thing but too dumb to know how to get it.

Maybe he’s an idiot.

He continues to stir the batter, thinking. Steve goes to say something, once, but Bucky cuts him off.

“Don’t speak until I tell you to.” Seventy years ago, Steve would’ve chewed his head off for saying that. If Bucky had reacted, there might’ve even been a full blown argument. Instead, Steve closes his mouth, waiting in silence for Bucky to mull over his thoughts.

At length, he pours the batter into a pan and places it in the over, before he turns to Steve.

“I’ve been thinking. About you.” Steve looks like he wants to say something, a vaguely panicked look coming to his face, but manages to keep him mouth shut.

“I remember that you pushed me away, before. A while ago. Why?” He asks, because he needs to know, needs to make sure that Steve wants him and won’t just go along with it because Bucky wants it.

And he does want it, the thought of dominating Steve makes heat flare in his gut. He’s glad Steve seems to like it, or at least respond to it, too. Because the thought of them being like they were before everything makes his stomach turn. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to do it again, to let Steve order him and control him. Every time he think on it, his pulse picks up in an unmistakable fight or flight reflex, telling him to lash out and run.

“I didn’t want to take advantage of you.” Steve says instead, and Bucky almost laughs.

“I appreciate that, actually.” And he does, because he doesn’t remember a lot of what’d been done to him, but he remembers enough. “Even though it’d be the least taken advantage of that I’d been for the last seventy years.” Steves lips tighten into a thin, white line, and Bucky tries to hurry the conversation along.

“But you do want me.” Bucky says, and Steve blinks.

“Of course I do.” He says, like it’s an irrefutable fact, like there was no possibility that could have changed since they were last together.

“Stand up.” Bucky orders, and Steve complies almost before Bucky’s finished speaking.

“Come here.” Steve walks towards him, stopping barely inches away. Bucky knows they should talk about this. His therapist is always talking about talking, about how it’s essential for communication and the development of proper inter-personal relationships. But they can do that later. Right now he has Steve in wet clothes in front of him, Steve who says he still wants him, even after everything.

“You know you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” Bucky says, before he can just lean in and devour Steve the way he’s wanted to since he first saw him and remembered, months and months and months ago.

“Funny, I was about to say the same thing to you.” He grins, and Bucky laughs, before he reaches up and pulls Steve into a kiss, hesitating with his left hand for a second, before Steve grabs it with his own hand and holds on tightly.

“I know it’s been a while,” Steve says into the short distance between their lips, minutes later when they can finally bare to be parted, “and I know we need to start again, start fresh and as we are now.” Bucky nods, because they do. They’re both different people, with different needs, than they were when they were teenagers, when they were young adults. Seventy years and so much more damage than Bucky’d ever thought about, when they were young and naive.

“I know Steve.” Bucky says, leaning in to press a quick kiss to Steve lips, because he can, and he’d been thinking about it for what felt like his whole life, and now he can.

“I still love you.” Steve breaths, and Bucky can’t help his grin.

“I don’t think I could ever stop loving you.” He replies, because it’s true.

Steve pulls him into another kiss, and this time they don’t let each other go for hours. They have so much to talk about, things they’d been carefully skirting around because it was true, they _were_ both idiots who didn’t know how to get what they wanted, but none of it was important as right now.

-

Literally everyone in the building is insufferably smug when it turns out that, yes, Bucky and Steve are like that.

Harriet bakes him a cake which says ‘congratulations.’ George, very seriously, tells Captain America that if he’s not careful with Buckys heart, he might be old but he still knows people who can break legs for a good cause.

Greta just pats his hand and tells him it’s a good match, that he’s got a very nice young man.

Bucky knows.

(Steve was told the same thing and had the same reply, because he’s always thought that James Buchanan Barnes was the nicest young man in the world.

Bucky hits him with a pillow when he declares it, later that night, but his smile is soft and his kisses indulgent, so Steve finds he doesn’t really mind.)

**Author's Note:**

> I hope there aren't too many mistakes, I can never seem to catch my own mistakes. :) Didn't end up working in the kissing in the rain trope, but I tried. It's raining outside when they kiss, though? And Steve it wet? So kinda.
> 
> Happy Easter.


End file.
